After The Tears ...
My head is throbbing. It's the kind of ache that forces my eyes shut in a feeble attempt to minimize the pain. My efforts are in vain, and I have now resorted to covering those very same eyes tightly with the palms of my hands. I realize I'm pushing too hard and make a quick shift to my temples. Still no relief.
Tears rise from a pool with a bottom I have yet to find.
Typically I can keep them at bay, but today, I can feel them right at the surface and threatening to overflow without a moment's notice. The normal "control" I have over those tears and my ability to push them off till a private moment presents itself is absent today. Every moment endured thus far has been teetering on the brink of meltdown - another episode where the pain in my heart gets so great that it spills out of my eyes at an uncontrolled rate. I can feel a quiver in my chest with each and every breath I take.
I know the situation is delicate enough that even locking eyes with someone my heart trusts would be enough to bring me to my knees.
The ache that resides in my heart ironically mirrors the pain I'm currently feeling in my head. It's uncomfortable. It's hard to focus. I have zero energy and even less motivation. A desire to hide under my covers or in the warmth of a hot, steaming shower is the only thing I find even remotely appealing. Even then, I know there is no place I can go where it will not follow.
While the vice squeezing my head feels terrible, I'm confident the pain will eventually subside. Peace resides in knowing it won't hurt forever. Water, rest, and a handful of ibuprofen should do the trick. I am grateful a remedy exists, for the thought of such a severe ache being my new norm, would be crippling at best.
As I throw back some medicine with a large glass of water, wishing I could fast forward the clock thirty minutes to where relief waits, I can't help but wish there was also a pill for a broken heart. If there was - my doctor surely would have prescribed the max dose.
Today marks a year without my dad … and they don't have a pill for that.
This ache is here for good. It will certainly ebb, flow, and with time, subside to an extent. More so, it will become less foreign and easier to tolerate for longer periods of time. But I would be naive in thinking it will ever fully leave me. It's naive for anyone to think time has the authority to heal all wounds. It may change them - but certain wounds are far too great for its power.
One full year without my father. I can't even believe it. I don't want to believe it. And yet, here I find myself today.
I feel both numb and panicked in the very same moment and question how such polar opposite emotions can coexist seamlessly. A part of me wants to push away thoughts of my dad and, with him, the harsh reality that he is truly gone. Another part of me wants so badly to lean into him and the memories that make my heart momentarily feel at peace. The choice appears easy and obvious to those who have yet to personally experience great loss.
I can hear their words of encouragement bounce around my mind -
Remember the good times … remember the love … remember what you had … remember …. remember … remember…
Sounds good on the surface, but I assure you, it is not that simple and no easy choice.
You see, when I remember the good, I am also forced to remember the bad. Every time I allow my mind to drift to my dad, I am inevitably left standing face to face with the fact that he is gone. I'm left looking up at a memory so big and so powerful, a memory so consuming and so painful - that I cower in its shadow.
That memory is watching him die.
It's almost like a slideshow plays without pause in my mind and once I start it I am powerless to stop it. It starts happy, full of laughter and joy - but - the pictures inevitably shift, betray me, and in an instant turn to images of pain, sorrow, and life leaving his body. In an instant, I witnessed him turn from my father - to the place my father used to be. That's an image I simply can't shake.
I don't want to go there. It makes me physically ill - and yet right now, I can't have one without the other. Focusing on what I had creates ample space to highlight what now is missing and gives me a front-row seat to the very moment I lost it. It's a delicate dance. A back and forth tug of war. It's grief in its purest form. The further I pull away from its epicenter, the further my dad pulls away from me. It feels like there is no good answer.
But today - the day that marks a full circle around the sun without him - I will choose to lean in regardless the collateral.
Congrats, you made it! … It's been a year - you must be feeling so much better by now! … How's your mom? … Oh, is she STILL sad? ...
I hear it echoed all around me. Behind a forced smile I hide the face that would more properly reflect the thoughts in my mind. It's hard to keep that left eyebrow of mine tempered in such moments. It wants to raise so badly, and the rest of my features want to equally play their role in a nonverbal assault birthed by such misguided words.
We have officially experienced our last "first" - our first missed birthday, our first Papa-less Thanksgiving, our first Papa-less Christmas. We have officially crossed the threshold where it is no longer a new loss and, thus, no longer new pain. "My dad died two months ago," hits much harder than, "My dad died a year ago."
I don't feel any different. I feel like he died yesterday or maybe last week at most. I feel as though I must fight to prove my wound is still fresh and bleeding - and yes - even after a year.
As a family, we have crawled, limped, and at times, drug each other through the battleground that was this last year. We have navigated an unmarked and treacherous road littered with landmines. Some we have carefully been able to tip-toe around, and some - have been direct hits with long-lasting collateral. We have cried, fought, fallen, cried some more, and now can finally look back and clearly see the many miles traversed. If the path mimicked the perception of this world, green pastures would -now- lie ahead.
The path ahead is no green pasture. It holds both beauty and pain but is still a messy, ugly mixture of the two.
It's more predictable, which helps, but that's like saying birthing a child is easier and less painful the second time around because you know what to expect. The thought makes me laugh. Going into my third child's delivery, I was not as calm as such logic would predict. I knew what was coming. I knew the pain and the process, and there were no longer any traces of naivety left in me to romanticize the pain of bringing a child into this world.
Much in the same way, we now know a bit more about what lies ahead - but it simply removes the questions - not the pain.
There is a tension one must embrace when it comes to the discomfort this life inevitably inflicts and God's sovereignty in the midst of it all.
I often wonder how His existence is denied - especially after losing a loved one. If for nothing else, wouldn't it be a catalyst for belief in life after death, and thus, a reunion someday? Wouldn't it be the time to cling to the hope that we will see those we lost once again? And yet, so often, the opposite happens.
But why?
Having a relationship with God means knowing He is sovereign over everything that happens AND still believing He is good. It's accepting that He could have healed my dad - but chose not to. It's accepting that he could have healed my son - but chose not to. For reasons we may never know, it's accepting the choice is His and not ours. And despite how painful life can be, it's believing that no piece of Him is cruel, even when everything around you screams the opposite.
But how can an all-powerful and loving God allow so much suffering and still be good and trustworthy?
That's the million-dollar question. Maybe that is why many people deny Him and the hope that lays so openly in His hands. Maybe the strain of the question alone, and our inability to really answer it, is the perfect breeding ground for doubt and resentment to grow.
I don't have the answers. But I know Him and I know this - He is good.
It’s faith. It's knowing and believing without fully understanding. It's the ability for things that feel opposite (like joy and sorrow) to coexist in one moment, even when it doesn't seem possible. It’s God being wholly good, even when His decisions sometimes feel - so bad. It’s realizing that without the promise only He can provide - I will never see Logan or my dad again.
It's faith. And I will choose that any day.
After this day and after these tears, here I sit, with traces of salt clung to my cheeks.
I can feel my breath slowing and my shaking body beginning to calm. Maybe it's God's peace washing over me - maybe it's pure exhaustion and my body's inability to continue in such a state any longer. Either way, I can feel this day has taken more from me than it has given.
After these tears, more will certainly be on the way. It might be tomorrow, or it might be next week, but one thing is for sure - they are always faithful to visit. I feel weak physically and mentally, but know today I did some very necessary, gut-wrenching soul work. In my heart, I know it will all be ok someday.
After these tears, I will lean into the memories of my dad - once again. For the love I have for him far outweighs the hate I have of his passing. I will lean in, knowing it will cause my stomach to turn and my head to split. I will lean in, knowing my heart's pace will pick up and its beats will pound in my ears. I will lean in, already feeling a tremor coursing through my hands at the thought.
I will continue to lean in until one day the memories of my dad's life - the ones filled with joy and love - grow to be the biggest and strongest.
That time will come - it's just far from where I find myself today.
Much love,
Jamie
